


Old Habits - Repetition, Repetition

by Vrunka



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blasphemy, Incest, Knife Play, M/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 09:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14210232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: We close our eyes in prayer so we may break this sinful routine.





	Old Habits - Repetition, Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> Holly is from the novel Far Cry Absolution...John doesn’t really seem to give much of a shit about her and it sucks. So I guess this is my feelings on that?
> 
> The novel is pretty okay, I def recommend it if Far Cry 5 has eaten your life like it has mine...

“We thought you’d...you might want a moment alone with her,” the scout says. Looking down at his feet.

The body on the table has been covered with a sheet. Bloodstains in the cloth. And their cross, marred by it. The landscape of it is wrong, too lumpy in places, too flat in others.

John licks his lips. He pulls the sheet back.

Holly’s face has been...mulched. There is no other word for it. Her pretty nose obliterated, the lips she had run up his cock so many times are shredded. She is not beautiful in death.

She is a horror.

John lets the sheet fall back. The wisps of her hair poke out from beneath it. John doesn’t take the time to fix them. Feels physically ill at the thought of touching it again.

“Take it away,” he says. Short. “Burn it.”

“You...you don’t want to—“

“She moves in death with God now, she is in a better place,” John feels his lip raise. His fingers twitch at his side. “She died to protect our ideals, our lives, our Father. This,” he tilts his head, “is not her. Take it away. Burn it.”

The scout nods. One of his fellows steps forward. Together they lift the body of the woman that had been John’s paramour. Brought to him now out of some sentimentality he does not quite understand. Some attachment he supposes he should feel.

He does feel put out, annoyed and angered at her loss, but these stirrings he recognizes more as Greed, more as Wrath. Echoes of past sins. Echoes and echoes.

“Where was she,” John asks. Because he really doesn’t know.

“Out at Sunrise Farm. Checkin’ in on shipments. Nobody was expecting the...they piled all the bodies in the woods. Routine check came upon them around noon. Animals had already been at ‘em, wolverine maybe, cougar. We just thought—”

John nods. His eyes flutter shut. The sins overturn in his gut, drawing, drawing. His fingers twitch again.

“And the Deputy?”

“Not there any longer. We observed a bunch of sinners that moved in but...no word on her.”

“It was her though?”

“A completely silent take over of one of our facilities,” the scout says. His head tips. Holly’s body hangs from his arm. “No alarms tripped. Sounds like the gas station all over again, sir.”

That it does.

That it does.

Sounds like the situation spiraling little by little out of control.

And John simply cannot stand by and allow that to happen. Sloth will not render him so helpless here.

“Take bliss bullets,” he says. “Hunt her down.”

He swallows. His throat burns. His knuckles itch. His hands itch. He finds the walkie talkie in the charger, clicks it on as the men leave, dragging Holly with them. He tunes it to the family’s private frequency.

Static buzzes over the line. Static.

John holds the receiver and breathes. Emotions rolling in his gut. Ripping at his lower stomach. Shredding. Old sins, sins he cannot forget, that he cannot forget.

“Father...I need you,” he says into the walkie. Another breath. He licks his lips. His finger loosens on the button until it is holding it no longer at all.

Static over the radio.

Static.

Static.

—  
Joseph is there within the hour.

He steps out of the helicopter and crosses the compound. He doesn’t look rattled or wind-blown, even though the whirling rotors have the armed guards clutching their guns and ducking their heads.

Joseph is there.

Joseph does not leave him wanting in his time of need.

His hands touch John’s shoulders when John meets him at the door. Warm fingers—calloused and sure—brushing John’s pulse, pulling gently until their foreheads touch. A standard greeting. But something in it is softer than usual.

They move into the house. And down, down into the bunkers.

“I’m glad you came,” John says.

Joseph doesn’t smile. He tips his head. Behind his glasses his eyes are endless, lost in thought. John closes the door behind them.

“Father, I—“

“They told me about Holly,” Joseph says. He seats himself on the chair John usually works from.

John has never told Joseph about Holly, but he isn’t surprised. Joseph knows things. God tells him things.

“Are you okay, my little brother?” Joseph asks.

The asking is a test. To answer incorrectly is to bring disappointment. John takes a breath. He tilts his head.

“Her loss is tragic for Eden’s Gate. She was a...a true believer and a...” John falters. “A good woman.”

“And she kept your cock warm,” Joseph adds. Off-handedly. Tone dry. John’s feels his pulse spike, the sudden encroaching panic that he has said the wrong thing. But Joseph is smiling, placidly, and his hands are resting on his knees.

“I’m sorry, Father,” John says. “I know I should be better than that.”

Jospeh waves his hand. He scratches it down his cheek. “The temptation of sin is mighty. Not all can resist it’s pull. I knew. I knew you hadn’t told me because you were ashamed. I knew you hadn’t told me because you wanted to be better.”

The hand outstretches. Palm up.

John takes it. Grasps it. The forgiveness in it. The gentleness.

Joseph exhales. His fingers tangle with John’s, callouses and warmth and warmth. John trembles as he steps closer. As he grips tighter.

“And I forgive you. I forgive you your sin,” Joseph says.

“I acknowledge it,” John says. Fervently. Dropping to his knees. Pulling Joseph’s hand against him, cradling it to his face. “I...I will wear it. I will carve it from myself. It won’t happen again, Father, I won’t allow it to.”

Those fingers touch John’s cheek. They stroke the skin, they slide into his beard.

“I know you won’t. And we will be sure of it, won’t we? We will purge this sin from you together. That is why you called me, is it not? The howling in your soul that demands retribution from this transgression.”

John’s throat trembles. “I am...” His flesh crawls. “Backsliding,” he says. “I can feel it. I’m...”

“Stronger than this,” Joseph says. “You are only human. But you can be better than this. God believes in you.”

“You believe in me,” John says.

Joseph’s eyes narrow. “I believe in you,” he says. “I extend my love to you. Will you accept it?”

John nods. He shuffles on his knees over to his work bench. Screwdrivers and knives and his tattoo gun. His fingers dance over each.

His fingers settle on the small fish boning blade. Thin and cruel and sharp.

Joseph watches him bring it back over. John’s knees have begun to ache. But that, the pain, it’s all part of Joseph’s love. The punishment is part of a Father’s duty to his children. This punishment is so much more bearable because John knows that Joseph loves him.

John begins to unbutton his shirt but Joseph’s hands stop him. Fingers carding through his hair, plucking his glasses from him to lay them to the side. His knuckles drag through John’s beard.

“Penance,” Joseph says, “should come from somewhere that truly matters. Was she your heart, little brother?”

John blinks. He doesn’t understand the question. His nail catches on a button. His hands are shaking again. “She...” he cannot lie, not to Joseph. “She was not. She just. She was very b-beautiful.”

And she was willing, eager even. He hadn’t had to try all that hard and she was there whenever he asked. Waiting on him. She maybe thought he loved her. She probably thought he loved her.

Joseph’s wife, the tattoo of her on Joseph’s forearm, seems to stare into John’s very soul. Lays him bare. The sin of lust.

His hands move to his belt buckle.

The leather hisses as it slides free of his jeans. The rustling of fabric. The whisper of it in the quiet between them.

Joseph does not stop him as John sits up to push the trousers from his hips. There are fewer scars below his belt line, no tattoos at all.

John stares down at the unmarked skin of his own thighs. Curling his fingers against the material of his boxers. The downy hair on them seems to sway in some unfelt breeze, and electric shock that keeps it standing on end revealing the freckled skin beneath.

Joseph’s gaze sweeps over him and John can almost feel the touch of his eyes. His skin tingles where they track.

Around the knife, his palm is sweating.

He sits in stasis, waiting. For whatever Joseph will tell him to do. He will do it. He would give everything for his brother. For his brother’s help to keep him from delving into sin again.

He already knows the word he will write.

Lust. For Holly. For revenge on her murderer. For retribution. For forgiveness. Lust is the root of his current sins.

“Keep going,” Joseph says. He hasn’t moved. Close enough John can smell his cologne, the sweet scent of Bliss that clings to his clothes.

John licks his lips, confused. The fingers of his free hand touch the elastic waistband of his boxers.

His skin crackles, heart rate speeding up. Mouth suddenly dry. He blinks. Blinks again.

Joseph nods.

John swallows. His throat working double time, contending with his pulse, the racing, thumping madness of it. He pushes the material off his hips and down his thighs. Like ripping off a bandaid. Quick, quick.

Nearly painless.

John is not ashamed in his nudity. Adam and Eve in the garden were not ashamed until they had sinned. But Joseph’s eyes, and Joseph’s gaze, and Joseph’s unwavering stare make John’s hands itch to cover himself.

His cock twitches.

He can feel it.

Something knotting in his gut. A tense, uncertain pressure.

He does not move though. Even under Joseph’s scrutiny, he manages not to falter.

“Do you trust me,” Joseph asks.

The asking is a test. Unlike the last time, John has no fear of failing.

“With all my heart,” John answers.

“Stand then and pray with me,” Joseph says. His hand extends once more. Gently he takes the knife from John.

The blade seems to glitter in the low light. Something mystic. Something pure. With Joseph’s low tones skipping over prayer, muttering words John also repeats by heart.

“What are you sorry for,” Joseph asks. The blade touches the skin of John’s hip. Slides, too loose to cut, across his abdomen. Through his pubes and up to his belly. Back down again.

John shivers. He cannot help it.

His voice catches. “For lusting,” he says. “I-I-I am sorry for lying to you. For hiding it from you.”

“This isn’t about me,” Joseph says. His eyes meet John’s, they narrow behind his glasses. The flat of the knife kisses against the root of John’s cock.

His reaction is instant. Instinctive. He grabs for Joseph’s shoulder, voice tripping from his throat. Knees tensing. Against the cool metal, his cock twitches once more. Traitorous. Making a liar of him.

Joseph raises his free hand to touch John’s fingers where they are digging into his shoulder. He loosens each one in turn.

“John,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Pressure from the knife again, the threat of it, not enough to break skin, but a reminder. Contrary to his words.

John licks his lips. He can see his own chest, rising and falling rapidly as he tries to keep pace. He nods. Smoothes his hand but keeps it steady on Joseph’s shoulder.

“They always move,” he says, “even when they promise not to. Bliss...Bliss is better for this. If you...you want them to be an utterly motionless canvas.”

“Presuming to tell me how to do this?” Joseph asks. An eyebrow raised. Smooth, cool smile on his lips.

John shakes his head. The knife finds the center of his thigh, the soft expanse of skin between his hip and his cock. The knife turns.

“Are you asking for a dose, before we get started?”

John shakes his head again. Harder. His hair has begun to curl at his temples. Sweat beading between his brows, on the back of his neck. Prickling in his armpits against the expensive material of his button down.

“Confess,” Joseph says.

“I gave into lust,” John answers. Eyes locked on Joseph’s, unwavering and unblinking behind his glasses. “Many times. I’ve...I’ve been trying but it isn’t enough. I want to...ache to...kill the Deputy. I know. I know it isn-isn’t your plan—God’s plan. But I—“

“You want to protect us.” The knife makes the first cut. The initial rush of pain is a bright streak across John’s brain. A comet, passing through orbit.

“Yes,” John hisses. Fingers shaking. Gripping Joseph’s shoulder again. “I do. I want to.”

“Lust to.” Joseph’s eyes have fallen to his work. Blood running sticky, warm rivulets down John’s leg. “You mustn’t let it cloud your judgement,” Joseph says. The Father says:

“Noble cause or ignoble; sin does not discriminate.”

“I just want to make you proud,” John says. Like he never could Daddy and Mama. Like he never can the sinners that run amok across the county, flaunting their sin and their disbelief.

“You want to be good for me?” Joseph asks. His tone flat once more. Not in jest. Not in condemnation.

The tension in John’s stomach flares again, fluttering warmth. The pain in his leg, from where Joseph has carved ‘LUS’ into his skin, rolls over in him. Morphs into something else entirely.

Tangible.

John can taste salt on his tongue. The back of his throat.

Joseph is also sweating. His cheeks and beard are damp when John moves his fingers to stroke his face. Hair beneath his nails, softer than it looks like it should be.

His cock flexes again, blood catching this time. He can feel the way it begins to harden between his thighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Pleading.

Joseph watches, silent, as John’s erection trembles to life.

The knife finishes the ‘s’, starts in on the ‘t’ and it does not falter.

“Do you think that is the sin?” Joseph asks.

Something in this is. The wrongness shivering through John’s very core. Guttural and base. Desire so much more potent than when Holly had gotten on her knees before him. If that had been sin then this...this is much, much worse.

This is blasphemy. This is—

Joseph’s fingers touch his cock, stroke up the length of it and John’s thoughts die. Shrivel. His breath leaves him in a groan, a useless violent exhale. He cannot draw air inwards, hardly dares to move. His pulse in his temple, in his throat, reverberates in his skull. All he can hear it the thump, thump of it; the roaring of his blood in his ears.

“This is not the sin, sweet brother,” Joseph says. Hand curling loosely.

John is hyper-aware of every callous, every scar, every fold in the palm. The nail of Joseph’s thumb, so immaculately trimmed, catches on the head, presses against the bundle of nerves just beneath the crown. A finger traces the light scar left from circumcision.

John feels himself shaking. Losing control again. Darkness at the edges of his vision, encroaching oblivion from a lack of oxygen.

“The sin,” Joseph continues, calmly, teaching a child, “comes from your mind. From your heart. The emotion of it. God made our bodies to eager for temptation. We so easily fall prey to desire. But if you separate yourself from it...” Joseph’s fingers tighten, his pace increases.

John inhales sharply, his body’s demands overcoming his shock. His hips twitch, pushing his cock further into Joseph’s grip, fucking the tunnel he has been provided.

“When you separate yourself from it,” Joseph repeats, “then it can become something else. Something beautiful. A worshipful. Without lust, without sloth, even this act can be pure.”

John doesn’t understand. He can barely comprehend the words beyond Joseph’s tone. His indulgent, Fatherly voice. So soothing. So calming. The spring in his belly is taut, hair-trigger.

He is so close.

He is so close from just Joseph’s hand and his voice. And his love. Oh, oh, his brother’s love.

“Do you understand?” Joseph asks.

John shakes his head. His other hand is in Joseph’s hair, he doesn’t know when that happened. The knife is lying on the floor and Joseph’s hand is steadying his hip. Curled into one another, tangled together.

This is not sin because Joseph has said it is not.

John understands that. It’s all that he needs.

“What do you want?” Joseph asks. “Right now. This moment.”

To come. John does not say that. He shakes, body forcing the answer—the wrong answer—away from himself.

“To please you,” John says, between his teeth. Desperate and reedy and from his nose. “To be free from sin.”

Joseph’s fist encircles him tighter. “And so you shall be,” he says. One more stroke, three, and Joseph’s fingers against the wound on his thigh and it is enough.

The tension in John’s stomach boils over, breaks apart, comes loose with a shattering so powerful it leaves him gasping. Leaves him in pieces. It launches him into the Bliss, through the Bliss, past it. Leagues beyond it.

For a moment.

Just one secular, singular moment, John feels like he brushes up against God. Holy and unfolding warmth. How Joseph must feel always. Glowing and golden and sure.

Air in his lungs.

A rush of it.

His body’s needs. His body’s demands. An ache in his thigh, in his knees, in his spine. His cheek is numb, squished against Joseph’s thigh. Collapsed on the floor between Joseph’s knees. A puppet with the strings cut for who knows how long.

Joseph’s fingers are in his hair, petting it. Stroking down into his beard. He is humming, quietly. John cannot identify the song from the off-key little snippets.

“Are you okay?” Joseph asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Do you understand?” Joseph asks.

“I’m trying to.” He looks up. Meets Joseph’s gaze. Warm and golden and sure. “There is a baptism,” he says, “tonight. I...I want to. Will you come with me. Like the early days. Together.”

Joseph leans down, touches his forehead to John’s; brushes his lips there as he pulls away. Lingering just a second too long to be an accident.

“Of course,” he says. “Their souls will not save themselves.”


End file.
